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You like me! Of course, you probably don't know me very well.

Posts Tagged ‘appendicitis’

copycat (or, a study of cheaters)

Thursday, May 6th, 2010

I, to my knowledge, have never been cheated on.

Ok, there was that one time in college with Jumpsuit. He went to a party with some high school friends and called me at 3 am, completely plowed and unable to find his way home. I talked him back to our house (my offer to come pick him up was stymied by a) his insistence that despite his slurred speech he was in fact totally ok to drive and b) the fact that neither of us actually knew where he was) and he arrived safe, sound, and with a hickey on his neck.

In the morning, he claimed that it came from a wrestling match that he’d had with one of his guy friends. I’ve never seen a wrestling match between twenty-two year old men that involved sucking on each others necks, but whatever. The fact that the girl who hosted the party called several times the next day was blamed on the fact that ‘she was worried about him getting home safely’.

Also? The hostess was a girl he’d been briefly involved with in high school. Oh – and is the girl he ended up marrying a couple of years ago.

In retrospect, come on. Obviously he at least made out with her. It’s not that I believed his lame story hook, line, and sinker – it’s more that I didn’t care enough to disbelieve him. We’d been together for 3+ years at that point, we lived together, and the did-he-or-didn’t-he mattered less than avoiding the multi-day blowout that would have ensued if I’d pursued it. When it came down to the work that accusing him would have taken, a hickey didn’t seem that important.

So yeah, maybe I was cheated on. And whether or not I’ve ever done any cheating of my own is a discussion that probably warrants it’s very own post – the short answer is yes, but I immediately confessed and broke up with the cuckold in question.


If Crockett went to some party and came back with a hickey, I would use a spoon to reopen his appendix scar and then I would pull his entrails out bit by bit until he confessed and admitted that she (obviously) tied him down and threatened my life if he didn’t take the hickey giving like a man. Then I would stitch him back up and he and I would go make out in front of her until she cried. And then I would arrest her and send her to some scary women’s penitentiary where hickeys wouldn’t seem so fun now would they?

Possibly I’ve gotten crankier as I’ve gotten older. Possibly Crockett is the love of my life and I knew at the time of Jumpsuit’s indiscretion that he and I had an expiration date. Possibly I’ve just gotten more violent and I’m just always looking for excuses to open a scar with a spoon.

Yesterday Aunt Becky wrote about why men cheat on Toy with Me. She brings up the gene discovered in voles in 2004.

Science, my trusty and nerdly sidekick, thinks it can explain some of it. Turns out, some white coated geneticists have discovered that a gene known as “334.” Those without the gene, or with only one copy of have showed (in preliminary studies) to be more monogamous, interested in family life, and caring for their young. Conversely, those with TWO copies of the “334” gene seem to be either unmarried or have a greater difficulty in monogamy. Turns out, fidelity may have a genetic, not simply a social or emotional, link which is interesting and science-y, but not exactly an excuse.

Basically, dudes without the gene bond more, and the more bonded a guy feels, the less likely he is to get all hickeying on other chicks. If your guy has the gene, it doesn’t mean he’ll cheat – but along with other factors it seems to be an indicator.

What I want to know is, where’s my gene? Or my not gene, as the case may be? Women cheat too, people, even though as a society we don’t tend to give the phenomenon as much attention. Google’s first suggestion for ‘why do men’ is ‘why do men cheat’ (followed closely by ‘why do men get morning wood’ and ‘why do men like breasts’).  ‘Why do women’ gives you ‘why do women wear thongs’.

If Crockett were to be unfaithful and they tested his entrails for the 334 gene and he had it, would that partially justify his infidelity? If I were to be unfaithful, it’s all on my head?

I’m confused by this. I want to know – does it matter if there’s a physical basis for wrongdoing? Would you be more or less likely to forgive someone you were involved for cheating with if they had this gene? If you could test your significant other for it, would you? And men, does it matter to you that we don’t apparently have such a gene? Do you guys waste as much brainpower on this kind of thing as we do?

I'm not bad, I'm just drawn that way.

cheer up sleepy jean, oh what can it mean

Wednesday, February 24th, 2010

I slept at the hospital with Crockett last night. I know that he had nurses and monitors and an actual bed to sleep in, but I wanted to be there, because that motherfucker scared the shit out of me yesterday. Surgery. Scary scary stuff.

Me sleeping at the hospital in a reclining chair that refused to recline was the right choice. Me coming to work today having had roughly three hours of sleep in a non-reclining reclining chair while wearing my contacts (which makes sleeping SUCK, if you’ve never tried it) was not the right choice.

Because today I had my 2009 review.

Sometimes, I don’t like my job very much. That was especially true for awhile last year when I had absolutely nothing to do and was bored and frustrated and interviewed for two other jobs internally just for a change of place.

My boss and I discussed that at the time. He referred to it as being ‘disengaged’. As in ‘Emma, you do a great job when you engage’.

While right now I’m ‘engaged’, he did in fact remember those periods last year when I wasn’t, and my review wasn’t as good as it could have been. The hell of it is, he’s right. I didn’t care about my job at that time, and even though it was over six months ago, this review was about last year.

I KNEW I should have stayed home today. (By virtue of my boss’s scheduling issues, if you miss a meeting chances are he’ll never be around to make it up.) At least that way I wouldn’t have been told that I was a disappointment for part of last year to my face.

On an unrelated note, I have to decide whether to stay home and nurse Crockett or go to Portland to see the tiniest sprinter. Like, soon, seeing as how my flight leaves in 15 hours.

Crockett says go and see Sam, but he wouldn’t admit he wanted me around to take care of him unless he was literally dying. Sam says stay if I’m going to be worried about Crockett. I am going to be worried about Crockett. Maybe, like staying in the hospital, staying home is more about me than him – but that’s what I’m leaning towards.

Life is about more than work.

P.S. Don’t you just love how deep and insightful I am sometimes? ‘Life is about more than work’? Come on, like you could have thought of that.

and….. we’re back

Tuesday, February 23rd, 2010

For the second time in our 13 months of dating, Crockett is in the hospital.

The first time was arguably my fault, although he gallantly insists that if a man is goaded into early morning trampoline jumping by his bloody mary drinking girlfriend, anything that results is the fault of that man.

This time I claim zero responsibility. Yesterday, we were thinking that perhaps he had food poisoning – his stomach just hurt, all day long.  Ages ago I read this book that compared food to sex – as in, we know so little about what we eat, who has touched it, etc, and if we knew that little about our sexual partners we would have all died of STDs by now. Ever since that and the great birthday salmonella incident of 2009, I blame every stomach upset on food poisoning.

However, without getting too graphic, let me say that there were food poisoning type symptoms that he was lacking. We briefly discussed appendicitis and ulcers, but being both non-medical and optimistic, we decided that he’d probably be fine.

This morning he called me at work.

Crockett: “Hi. How is your day going?”

Me: “Eh, could be better. My power was out at the house this morning. This number isn’t your cell – where are you calling me from?”

Crockett: “The hospital.”

And appendicitis is is. He’s through surgery, awake, and this particular hospital has private rooms with flat screen tvs and room service. He’s here until tomorrow, and honestly, this room is sorta making me feel like I’m on vacation. So, we’re back in the hospital. Fab.